


If Ever The Sun Could Speak

by The_8th_Deadly_Sin



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, F/M, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18367451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_8th_Deadly_Sin/pseuds/The_8th_Deadly_Sin
Summary: A young Arthur Morgan is hot on the trail of the man that killed his father. On the way, he runs into a mysterious stranger, who is curiously interested in his quest, and for reasons unbeknownst to him, joins the adventurer on his journey. Arthur is young and naive, and has much to learn about the world. One fact being, that monsters exist, though, not in the way he'd have ever expected. What will he do when he discovers the true identity of his companion? The truth about his father, and his murder? What will he do, when he discovers, the truth about himself.Story is better than the summary. Probably. Non-con is not between Dutch and Arthur. Not your conventional werewolf dynamic (beta/alpha). Classic monsters and also mythical creatures. Read my story. Or don't. I'm not a beggar. End of summary.





	1. Stars Keep Secrets Too

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted his mother’s cooking. The last time she ever hugged him, with gentle, loving arms. The last time she kissed him and told him she loved him. He couldn’t remember what she smelled like, thought whenever a thought provoked her image, he could faintly recall the obnoxiously pungent odor of the medicine she once took. Forever tainting the thought of her, though he tried not to linger on it. He couldn’t remember what she sounded like. He knew she’d loved to sing, and she’d been good enough at it to sing in church sometimes, though he had no memories of it. He couldn’t remember a great deal about her. Not the way her hands felt when they cupped his cheeks, or the sound of her laughter when she admired his marred little face. Peppered in dirt, mud dirtying his clothes. He couldn't remember the way her lips felt when they pressed against his forehead. Had it not be for the picture his father had given him, he wasn’t sure he’d know what she looked like either.

He’d lost her when he was young. Too young. It had been a fever of some kind. One that had taken her quickly and into the night. He couldn’t remember much of her life, but if there was one thing he remembered, it was her death. He’d woken up long before his father. Sitting beside her corpse, though at that point, he didn’t know she was dead. He remembered his father turning over in the bed. Weary smirk greeting his son, before he turned over to awaken his wife. He would never forget the way his father’s expression fell. Like all the blood had rushed out of his face, and there was no life left in him. He remembered it because right then, his father looked more dead, than his mother did.

His father had picked up her body, dainty thing she’d become. Walking her out into the small cemetery they’d dug for his brothers. The one’s who’d died at birth, and the two empty coffins of the ones who’d died too far away to bring home. He’d set her by the wall, where he’d lain out a tarp. Barking at his son to stitch it up as he dug. Constantly flicking pained eyes to her expressionless face. Crying quietly and so subtly that the boy didn’t even notice until he’d finished, only to stare up at a tear stained face. They didn’t have much of a funeral. Not much of a goodbye either. For a while, it felt as though it hadn’t even happened. But -- gradually, the joviality now absent from their household struck him, and he knew things would never be the same.

His father was a good man. Despite his cold, and at times aggressive parenting, which occasionally extended beyond just words, he was as good of a father as Arthur was going to find in this world. And he knew that. He’d seen the world enough to know that there were a whole lot of sick and twisted and evil men in it, and he was lucky that he’d managed to get one of the good ones. He just wished, sometimes, that he gotten to keep him a little longer. He’d died when Arthur was fifteen. No -- he’d been murdered, when Arthur was fifteen. By some thug. Some low life cretin that he’d been in the business of finding for the past year. Stuck trotting upon a cold trail, hoping to kick over some stones and find a clue of some kind. Though he wasn’t very hopeful. From what he knew, the man he was looking for was used to being hunted. And of course, Arthur wasn’t very adept at his task, given he knew how to fire a gun, but...not much else.

It must’ve been about three of four in the morning when they found him. Some local gang, he supposed. Camping in their territory on his way to Augustine, a town in which his mark frequented the local whore house. Though that small piece of information was the product of small town folly and speculation, therefore he couldn't entirely trust it, and had no inclination as to whether or not it held any truth. Nonetheless, he was inclined to, at the very least, investigate. Though that seemed to be doing wonders for him now. Awoken by rough hands which yanked him to his feet, only to throw him back down into the dirt. Discombobulated and startled as a harsh, violent laughter filled his ears. Scrambling back against a nearby tree as he examined three figured which circled around him like vultures. Each wore dark clothes, uniting factor being the bright red handkerchiefs they wore. Obnoxious and opaque against their black clad bodies.

“Looks like we found ourselves a squatter.” One chuckled.

For a moment, Arthur thought to part his lips, in order to correct the man. To tell him he was only passing through. Though he knew better than to argue with men who very obviously held the upper hand. And given his gun belt still laid, tucked under his bed toll, he knew he didn’t have much hope to speak of, that things wouldn't get ugly.

“Seems we have.” Another added. He was a tall feller. That was the first observation Arthur made of him. Next, tracing the deep scar rooted through his jaw, denting it into his face. Giving him a naturally menacing expression. One that was very mean, and very obviously unkind. He wasn’t the kind of person Arthur would ever want to fight. Nor shoot, for that matter, as he was entirely confident this man would be able to take all six rounds from his cattleman, and keep right on coming. He swallowed, careful to keep his trepidation under wraps as the men examined him.

“What’s a pretty little thang like yerself doin’ out here all alone?” The third questioned, falling into a squat before him, a little close than he’d deem necessary, but it wasn’t exactly like he had the leeway of complaint. Rather, watching the man warily as he traced Arthur slowly with his eyes. Strikingly winsome blue eyes that Arthur could see belonging to any well rounded, respectable man. Not some two-bit scoundrel. Or pervert, if Arthur had any inclination as to how he might identify one. And he did.

“Just passin’ through.” He replied carefully. Not bothering to add the “not lookin’ for trouble.”, because he wasn’t so stupid or naive to believe that he wouldn’t get any regardless. And, being the intellectual he was, he also knew it was better to speak, than to remain silent when being asked a question by three armed men in the middle of the woods. Otherwise, he’d have spit at them, rather than respond.

“Oh, boy’s just passin’ through.” The man echoed, peering over his shoulder at the other two, who both chuckled, as if that were the funniest thing they’d heard all day. Each stepping a bit closer. Closing in around him. Intimidation tactics flawless in both effort and execution. Arthur almost felt the need to scream. Though refrained, for he knew no one would hear him. And if they did, not many would be willing to risk life and limb to help a stranger. Not if they were smart.

“Well darlin’, I ain’t too convinced that you’re quite that stupid.” The man said, tilting his head, eyes darting hungrily up and down Arthur’s frame. Licking his lips and watching intently as the boy’s chest rose and fell. Arthur waited reluctantly for him to go off on a tangent. About how this was their territory, and no one gets to just pass through, their territory. Without paying a fine of some kind, that is. Which would undoubtedly be everything Arthur owned. If not, then perhaps what little else he had to offer.

“Y’see this is-”

“Fenton territory. I know. And these here are the Fenton Gang hills. Yada, yada, can we get to the consequences?” Arthur questioned. Bold, and fueled by the fear he refused to admit he felt. Cursing himself and irrational behavior. It was ok to be confident in the bleakest of circumstances, though only when one is the protagonist of a book, or writing of some kind. Not when it was real life, and his entire existence was on the line. Biting back an apology, for he knew it would do him no good now. He peered up at the man in terror, stiffening as a murderous glaze melted over his eyes. Sadistic, and overly excited as a low chuckle emanated from somewhere in the back of his throat. The men on either side of him, recovering from their momentary shock, before joining in. Arthur would estimate that roughly -- nobody, talked back to them. Least of all, those found in his current position.

“My my, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite so smart, and quite so stupid at the same time. How bout you fellas?” He asked, soft chortle beckoning a few nods of agreeance.

Arthur bit his tongue. Angry at himself for not allowing the monologue. The long spiel that comes with authority of any kind. He should have been patient. Smart. But he’d never been known to retain either of those traits.

“Well sweetheart, I ain’t quite decided what them consequences might be just yet. I was figurin' between takin’ you things or…” He paused. Lustful glaze saying more than his vague addition of, “Or takin’ you.” Both factors which made Arthur cringe and sink back further into the tree behind him. Fist clenched and at his sides. Shoulders tense and trying hard not to shake.

“But since you put me on the spot…” He growled roughly, grabbing Arthur’s ankle, and without warning, dragging him down along the dirt. Rucking up his shirt and scraping his back along dried twigs and rocks. No, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to beat him up, and take his things. Or kill him, or lynch him and hang him from a tree with a sign around his neck that read “This is Fenton territory.” Not that those punishments were out of the question, but he certainly didn’t expect this. And even if he knew fighting wouldn’t do him much good, he couldn't help it. Kicking hard, with all his strength, knocking the wind out of his assailant as he turned onto his stomach and crawled along the ground back toward the tree. Eyes frantically scanning the ground for a large rock, or even a sharp stick. Anything he could use to fight.

“Goddammit…” The leader barked, “Tie him up.”

He had only a moment. Only a split second to find something. To grab something. To make his stand. However, he was only a moment too late, when he recognized the rather jagged, serrated looking rock which God seemed to have placed there just for him. Knowing he would need it. Though as he was dragged away, inch by inch, arms snagged up behind him and bound, along with his feet, he figured the devil must have put it there instead.

“Search his shit.” The leader ordered, waving the other two off. One approached his horse, who stood hitched to a nearby tree. The other rummaging through his mediocre camp.

“That wasn’t very nice darlin’.” He said lowly. Turning Arthur onto his back. Fingers weaving through his hair. Yanking his head up, exposing his neck enough for the man to lower his face beside, and take a deep sniff. Letting out a soft pant against his skin, before releasing him. “You’re lucky we ain’t got time to deal with you proper, boy.” He murmured, patting down Arthur’s sides as the boy struggled fruitlessly. Secretly relieved that whatever had almost occurred -- hadn’t. “Gotta be on our way soon ‘nough.” The man added, chuckling lowly as he reached into one of the boy’s pockets. Retrieving a locket. One of mere significance to Arthur. It had been given to him as a parting gift from his old teacher back in Cattlena, his home town. Mrs. Whitaker. Nice woman, always particularly kind to Arthur for the fact that he reminded her of one of her sons who’d passed on some time ago. It wasn’t worth much, a couple dollars at most. However, what did matter, was the photograph in his breast pocket. One which depicted a beautiful young woman. Loving and gentle blue eyes. Long almost-blonde, brown hair. Fair, milky skin, and soft features. His mother.

“My, my, ain’t this a perty thing. That yer girl? Maybe we oughta pay her a visit. Whatchu thing, darlin’?” He questioned, obnoxious tone crowing loudly in Arthur’s ears. Urging a bleak glare and hopeless grunt to escape him. There was no sense in pleading. No sense in bargaining. No sense in doing anything that’d get himself killed. Not while he had a father to avenge. And not over a picture. Though Arthur had never been known to have much sense.

“I swear to God you inbred piece o’ shit-”

“My Lord, you gotta mouth on you, dontcha boy?” He barked, backhanding Arthur, taught grip holding tight to his jaw. Keeping the boy’s head in place as evil eyes poured into him, “But you oughta be praying’ to God, boy. Not swearin’ to him. ‘Cause ain’t no one but him, can save you now.” He growled. Flicking the picture into the grass beside him as he retrieved the knife at his waist, slowly. Iris’ bouncing with a violent urgency. Smile creeping up onto his features as he held the blade just under Arthur’s chin. Far too happy for Arthur’s taste, as he wiggled beneath the weight of the man. Far too angry to be frightened. Almost, daring the man to slice him up as he kicked to no avail. Cursing and snarling as if somehow it would sent him free. Pausing, however, when he noticed the outline of a dark figure in his periphery.

“I wouldn’t say that.” A voice said. Low and volatile. Animalistic, almost, and before Arthur could turn his head to examine the stranger, he was tempted to gaze in the direction of two descending bodies. Each with a knife between their eyes. Relieved, though, also mildly terrified, as the man above him rose to his feet.

“Who the hell are you!” He shouted. Sheathing his blade, replacing it with his gun. Stalking out into the night as Arthur scrambled backwards along the dirt. Shimmying toward one of the bodies, as he watched the short standoff between men; what little of it he could see. Turning onto his side and yanking hard at the knife lodged in the cadaver’s head behind him. Twisting and wiggling it frantically until it had come loose. Turning the weapon over in his palm as he cut messily at the ropes which bound his wrists. Jolting at the sound of an abrupt scream, followed then by a loud, blood curdling squelch, which silenced it.

Once free of his bonds, he turned onto his hands and knees. Quickly crawling toward his bedroll. Flipping it up roughly and retrieving his Cattleman. Turning over onto his back, both startled and puzzled by the man who now sat by the fire. Leisurely and calm. Hands extended and held out over the flames.

“That ain’t a very fittin’ greeting for the man who just saved your life.” He said, small smile curling onto his lips. Dark eyes flicking up to meet, soft and tired, blue ones. Observing curiously as the boy breathed heavily. Gaze wide and without conviction. His mind was racing, he could tell, panicking. Something he pretended as if he hadn’t noticed. Clearing his throat and spitting out to the side as he rested in place. Momentary glances resting on the two corpses on either side of him.

For several moments, Arthur sat stunned. Mouth dry, body weak, adrenaline rush slowly wearing off. Every instinct in his body told him to panic. To stand up and run and never look back. And yet, despite the fact, gradually, he began to calm. Scooting slowly along the dirt. Gun still in hand. Never for a moment thinking he ought to lower it. Rather, examining the man briefly. He was older, much older than Arthur, though, still young in some regard. He had a clean shaven face, apart from a thick mustache, and patch of hair below his lip. He wore refined clothing. A bright red vest, which was a very striking shade of crimson. Contrasted against gold chains. He wore long black slacks and a long tail coat to match. He looked like the devil, if ever Arthur imagined seeing him, though that may have been due in part to the firelight glow which illuminated his rough features.

“If I had it in my mind to hurt you, then I’d have done it before you grabbed that revolver.” He said, snapping Arthur from his daze, grip tightening on the gun as the man reached lazily into his pocket. Retrieving a cigarette, which he then offered the boy, as if to prove he meant no ill will. Shrugging casually when it was refused. Instead, lighting it, and placing it between his lips. Mustache twitching as a brief chuckle escaped him, “What I’m sayin’ is, I mean no harm.”

Arthur nearly scoffed at that. Holding his breath for a moment as he took in the man’s words. Mulling them over in his mind until breathing in deeply and saying, “Pardon my skepticism. Nearly gettin’ killed’ll do that to a man.”

Against his better judgement, he dropped the gun to his side. Sighing and gazing down into the fire. Watching the collection of sticks and logs burn as the night crept on around them. Dark, and eerily quiet.

“Well first of all, you ain’t quite a man. And second of all, I don’t think our fine friends here were goin’ ta kill ya.” The man told him. Daring a glance at the boy who subconsciously pulled his knees into his chest. Peering hesitantly over at the bodies which, for a moment, nearly escaped his mind. He wasn’t stupid. Well, he wasn’t entirely stupid. He knew full well who these men were. Along with their dubious intentions.

“I know.” He murmured quietly. Almost inaudible, except to the man, who tilted his head at the soft hint of vulnerability in the boy’s voice. Taking a moment to look the kid over as he sat numbly across from the man. He was young. Too young to be out on his own like this. Not unless he had to be, which he considered for a moment. He too had been sent on the run at a rather young age, though undoubtedly, for different reasons. Very, different reasons. Nonetheless, he was intrigued. Didn’t find himself often running into orphans. Especially not in these parts.

“Not to pry, but, why’re you out here kid?” He questioned, reaching into his satchel and retrieving a strand of jerky. Flicking his cigarette into the flames as he gnawed at the dried meat. Patiently awaiting a response. Tempted by immaculate blue eyes, to examine the soft features surrounding them. The faint familiarity of them. Intense gaze, high cheekbones, strong jaw. Brows furrowing slightly as he watched the boy. Examining the messy tuft of hair sticking up from the back of his head. Smoothed down thoughtlessly by a mindless hand. Lost, blue eyes staring intently into the fire. There was something about him. Something nostalgic and reminiscent. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Flaring his nostrils and inhaling deeply, faint scent reminding him of his younger years. Though it was far too tainted by smoke for him to be certain.

“Lookin’ for someone.” The boy murmured. Arm swiping up to rub his nose. Still holding tight to that gun. Occasionally glancing at the man, because he did not seem as friendly as he was pretending to be. And Arthur may not have been a good fighter, per se, but he could shoot quicker than most men could bat an eye. Normally, that would make him a bit cocky, but he wasn’t about to press his luck with this seemingly heroic stranger. If he’d have been a little younger, or perhaps a bit more naive, he might have thought not to question how this man was so good with knives. Nor why he was wandering around in the dark.

“Oh?” The stranger questioned. Eyes dancing with intrigue as the boy stiffened again. Course, gruff tone of the man’s voice irking him. Wondering what he wanted, though not yet courageous enough, to ask.

“A murderer.” He added, ignoring the soft chuckle which was given to him in response.

“Well I hope he doesn’t catch you off guard like these poor fools. Might not be anyone to save you next time.” He told him, lip twitching into a grin. As if he knew something that Arthur didn’t. As if he were implying something. Hinting at something that Arthur was too stupid to pick up on.

“He killed my father.” Arthur muttered, fingers absentmindedly reaching into his pocket, only to remember the picture of his mother had been taken. Lost, somewhere in the grass. That was all he had left of her. The only evidence on the planet that she had ever existed. That, and a pile of bones, though, he figured those didn’t prove much of anything. As for his father, the Cattleman in his hand was the only thing he had left of him. For a moment, his eyes flicked out into the dark. Tracing the ground as if he could spot it. Though even if he had, he wouldn’t have even thought about getting up to retrieve it. Not with those foreign eyes glued to him.

“That’s about as good a reason as any to kill a man, I suppose.” The man told him, shifting closer to the fire. Not for a moment missing Arthur’s expression, and sudden lostness. As if something crucially important to him had gone missing. Tracing his teeth with his tongue as he narrowed his eyes.

Arthur nodded, rotating his jaw as he breathed in deeply. He didn’t know why he was saying any of this. Maybe just to keep him talking. To stall the man as he attempted to figure out what he was supposed to do. Contemplating his options, though doing his best not to make that fact obvious. He could either shoot the man now, and run the risk of finding out he wasn’t alone, or wait until he had no choice, and potentially draw too slow. He didn’t imagine this sociable standoff ending in anything less than bloody. But, given that he wasn’t yet experienced enough to know which choice would be the smartest, he was forced instead, then, to wait. Hoping things wouldn’t escalate.

“What’s his name?” The man inquired, catching Arthur off guard. Small smirk indicating he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking. That he could read his mind, and knew every eventuality to their current conundrum. A fact which made Arthur begin to sweat. Swallowing as he faced the fire again.

“D-Dutch Van der Linde.” He said quietly. Hesitant to see the man’s reaction. Dutch Van der Linde was a notorious criminal. Likely the most wanted man in the state. In the country, even. An infamous killer and thief and conman. Brandishing skills which far surpassed his own. A fact which he never really thought about for the fact that, if ever he did find the man, or met him, he really wouldn’t know what to do after that. Sure, he wanted to kill him, and that’s what he intended to do, but, he wasn’t even sure in truth, that he’d ever find the man. He figured he’d die before then, or get killed. Blind hope and idiocy the only things to have fueled him thus far.

“Dutch Van der Linde, huh? Hmm. I’ve heard a lot about that man. A hardened criminal, they say.” The stranger told him, a seemingly dull reaction considering the impossibility of his task. The suicidal factor of it. The stupidity behind it. “What’s he look like?”

Arthur blushed for a moment. Dreading to admit the fact that he didn’t actually know. Wanted posters hardly did men justice, especially when outlaws weren’t just standing around waiting to get their picture taken, or get sketched. And, well, he’d never had the courage to grab one anyway. Not inclined to be mocked by lawmen or seasoned bounty hunters who knew what it meant to take one. He was a kid. A dumb, brainless kid, and even they knew he stood no chance.

“I dunno.” He murmured, “I ain’t ne’er seen him. I wasn’t there when he killed my father. I only know it was him ‘cause he left this on the table.” he added, reaching into the satchel above his bedroll. Retrieving a cigarette case with the initials “D.V.L” carved into it. Glancing up to find the man with a knife in his hand. Carving a small sliver of tobacco off a rather large chunk. Expression faltering for a moment as he gazed down at the object in the boy’s hand. Then relaxing back into monotone as he discretely calculated the boy’s distance. Fingers gripping the tip of the blade. Wrist prepared for the swift flicking motion which would undoubtedly end this kid’s life. Eyes narrowing a bit as he asked, “Wha’d you say your name was?”

“Arthur.” he replied softly, “Arthur Morgan.” He knew better than to use his father’s last name, for he had once been an outlaw himself. Wanted in seven states for crimes he’d never really told Arthur about, which was why the boy wasn’t all that surprised when he turned up dead. Only mildly shocked by the fact that Dutch Van der Linde had pulled the trigger. No, since his death, Arthur had been answering to his mother’s maiden name. Just in case any loose ties of his father would try to kill him on the basis of guilt by association.

For a moment, the stranger froze. Grip on the knife loosening. Sitting for a moment in absolute silence. Sniffing loosely at the air. Picking up that scent again which was now screaming at him. Calling him a fool, because how had he not known earlier? How had he not noticed.

“Hmm.” Was all he could say. All he could think. Mind having slid off the tracks, lost among terrifying thoughts. Scrambling to recover from this revelation. Sick feeling in his stomach. Churning and bubbling at the thought that he had almost killed this kid. Had he said any other name, and he would have. He’d have thrown that dagger right through his eye socket. And that’d have been the end of him.

“And you?” Arthur questioned. Furrowing his brows a bit as the stranger collected themselves. Indecipherable expression returning. Enigmatic smile, which, for some reason seemed a bit more genuine now.

“Name’s Hoagy Macintosh.” He replied. Charismatic and endearing as he held out his hand over the flames. A gesture which Arthur considered for several moments, before moving hesitantly to reciprocate it.

“Mind if I tag alone? I happen to be in search of, one of Mr. Van der Linde’s associates.” He added, whistling sharply, summoning a pale white horse to his side. Standing slowly, so as to illustrate that he meant no harm. Acknowledging how Arthur discreetly pulled back the hammer of his gun. Jaw locking as he watched the man take down his bedroll from his horse’s saddle. Waiting until Arthur had granted him permission, before laying it out on the grass.

“Besides.” He added, “I’m sure I can be of assistance. I think you’ll find I’m a bit more experienced than, well, a young man like yourself would be.”

He glanced up innocently at the boy, as if meaning no offence. Slowly removing his gun belt and placing it on the ground beside the fire. Joined momentarily by his knives and any other weapon he had. Soft nod communicating that he trusted Arthur not to kill him, and that he hoped the feeling was mutual.

“Allow me to uh- I suppose for lack of a better word,  _ dispose _ , of our friends here.” He said, rising to his feet. Deliberately slow and lagging in his movements. Making sure Arthur didn’t miss a single shuffle or step. Gradually laying the foundation of trust as he drug each body, one by one, from the small camp. Returning to the delight that Arthur had stowed his gun. Sitting over his own bedroll as the man seated himself on the dirt by the fire.

How long had it been. Ten years? Twenty? He couldn't remember. It seemed as though it only been yesterday. As if he had only just talked to the man. He smoothed down his mustache with his index finger and thumb. Deep in thought as his eyes traced the boy before him, who was a spitting image of his father. Well, more so his mother, in truth, all her beauty and grace, though there still remained a remarkable resemblance. So much so, that he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. Scolding himself for his carelessness and cocksure attitude. Maintaining a dully, monotone expression, though secretly mortified. He had almost killed him. Nearly murdered the boy. Cut him down in cold blood. And for what? Regardless of whether or not he was hunting the man, it’s not as if he could kill him. In fact, it was almost amusing to imagine him trying.

Nonetheless, he was glad he’d found him. Glad he’d saved him, and glad that he was otherwise, safe. Though, he wasn’t exactly flattered at the blatant hate the boy had for him. He couldn’t imagine what he’d been through. Losing his mother the way he did. Then his father, though there seemed to be some confusion there. As the very last thing he’d have ever thought to do, was kill Arthur’s father. However, if only to make it up to the man, who’d gone without his knowing, he’d take care of his son.

And all, which that implied.


	2. East To West I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and his companion reach Augustine. Dutch Van der Linde seems to be closer than Arthur realizes. Old friends unite. 
> 
> That's about it. 
> 
> Also, y'know other characters are introduced. And stuff. Man, I really have to work on my summaries. But -- I mean -- who doesn't on this website amiright? No? Ok.
> 
> So uh...why are you still reading this? You can move on now. Or not, I mean that's up to you. I'm kind of...I'm kind of surprised you stopped to read this...in the first place so uh, hats off I guess. Anyway. Uh. That's...that's about it. B-bye...I guess.

He waited until Arthur had fallen asleep. Mystified for several minutes by the slightly smaller body which lay prone across from him; until certain his heartbeat had slowed into the rhythm of sleep. Knowing the sun would be rising soon, and that they wouldn’t get much rest anyway. Arthur was a deep sleeper. Likely an acquired trait. A life of luxury often did that to people. Or rather, life on the run, or a life of even the most remote danger would train the mind to be quick and agile. Not so relaxed in the company of a stranger. Though, he didn’t like to think they were strangers. 

He crept slowly down the hill. Careful, and expertly quiet. Scanning the night as he made his way down to the small ditch in which he’d chucked the bodies of Arthur’s aggressors. Moonlit eyes flicking down to examine their faces. 

He crouched low. Taking in a deep whiff of the scents which encapsulated them. First, detecting sweat. Thick and salty. They were dehydrated, moving fast. On their way somewhere in some kind of urgency, though evidently not enough to pass Arthur by. Curling his lip up into an inaudible snarl at the thought. Next, he identified blood. Coppery and strong. Fresh, though by now it had coagulated and grown cold. It wasn’t their blood, he knew, for it was still running aimlessly down their extended limbs. He figured perhaps they’d gotten in a tussle of some kind. Likely down the road toward Augustine, a town which was under the control of Jacob Fenton, as opposed to his brother Rylie Fenton. Damned if he knew which one these fools worked for. Likely Rylie. Only his men were this bumbling and stupid. Forth-write and cocky. These were all fairly usual smells. Nothing out of the ordinary, not that he figured there would be. 

However, there was one thing that managed to pique his interest. Beyond the sweat, and blood, and faint smokey odor, there was something familiar. A faint perfume. Tangy and overly sweet. He knew of only one woman who wore such an obnoxious fragrance. Susan Grimshaw. She was the owner of a very fine establishment by the name of Lonesome Dove. A brothel. One he visited on occasion for information, though he figured this time, it would be more of a social call than anything. Considering his company. 

Once finished picking through each man’s pockets and gathering as much information as he could, he very quietly hacked off each of their fingers. Gathering twenty-nine in total, as the leader had been missing one. Then wrapping them in a handkerchief and tucking them into his satchel. A treat, he supposed, though he knew they supposedly tasted better when left to ferment for a few days. Though that’s not to say that the girls were picky. They’d take just about anything he gave them. Dead or alive.

He didn’t sleep. Rather, he laid upon his bedroll, tossing thought the pages of one of his many books. Glancing occasionally to Arthur who lay, curled up, and rather pathetic looking. No -- pathetic was too strong a word. Too derogatory. Vulnerable? Yes, he supposed that’s what it was. He looked, vulnerable. Shivering in the frigid night air. Clinging tight to the thin blanket draped over his frame. He couldn’t help but stare. Wishing he could help him. A sudden, incredibly strong urge to protect the boy prompting him to his feet, where he stood for several moments. Tip toeing back and forth along his bedroll. Fighting his instincts until finally laying back down. Tossing another log onto the fire, which he stared down at, almost angrily. It wasn’t warm enough. It couldn’t keep Arthur at a satisfactory temperature, and had it been a living, breathing thing, and he’d have ripped its throat out.

When the fire finally died, he didn’t bother to rekindle it. There’d be no point. They’d be up and ready to move within the hour anyway. Or at least, he hoped they would. Arthur didn’t seem like the kind of person to sleep too much, and as for himself, well, he hardly slept at all. He didn’t need to. Something that he figured Arthur would catch onto soon enough. Depending on how long they stuck together. Which, he hoped was longer than he expected. 

By the time Arthur had awoken, ‘Hoagy’ had already packed his things. Careful and quiet as he acquired his weapons. The very last thing he wanted was to startle the boy and get shot in the process. Sitting patiently against a tree until he saw the boy stirring. Quickly sitting up and re-configuring himself once he’d recalled the events of the night prior. Glancing at his new company skeptically as he begun packing. 

“I’m on my way to Augustine.” Arthur told the man, stepping out into the grass, where he wandered for a moment or two. Ignoring as the stranger eyed him curiously. Head tilted as the boy reached for something. A slip of paper, as far as he could tell, and slipped it into his pocket. Then crossing their small campground in order to mount his steel coated mare. Petting down her mane as he watched his companion mount his stallion.

“Sounds like a plan.” He replied, warm smile doing more to make Arthur wary, than to put him at ease. Both trotting along the dirt path a ways away. Keeping in pace with one another, slow and steady. Making sure to keep an eye on each other, in the unlikely event of betrayal. Arthur had tried his hardest not to fall asleep. He’d been waiting for the man to drift off, in which case he’d have run. But he couldn’t help it. He’d been traveling for days, and he was exhausted. He was honestly surprised to have awoken at all, entirely confident he’d have been killed in his sleep.

“So what do you plan on doing? Once you find this… Van der Linde fellow?” The man questioned, head tilted, look of intrigue riddled across his features. Perhaps a bit of condescending confidence as well, though Arthur decided to ignore that. 

“I ain’t quite sure yet.” He replied honestly. It had been three months. Three long months, at that. He’d gotten hot trails, cold trails, eldorado roads, and dead ends -- and just when he thought he was closing in, every time, it appeared as though he’d never been that close at all. It had become such an impossible task, that Arthur wasn’t quite sure he’d know what to do if ever he met the man. At this point, he’d become more of a mythical figure than a man at all. A legend or villain in a story book, rather than a real person. Someone Arthur could hardly fathom taking the time to ride up to his old house in the woods and shoot his old man. And even despite the fact, he didn’t know if he hated the man enough to kill him. Sure he was vengeful, and justice had to be served, but, he didn’t know if he’d have the heart to kill a man in cold blood. Vengeance or not.

“Well then, what would you say to him? If you could?” The man asked. Riding a bit closer to the boy who glanced at him in his periphery. Sighing and shrugging lamely. 

“Nonsense. Pretend I’m him. What would you say?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Wondering why this stranger seemed so invested in his life. Why was he asking so many questioned and what did he intend to gain from them? Men sure were strange on this side of the world. Stranger than he ever knew.

“Well, I guess… I guess I’d start by askin’ him… askin’ him why he killed my father.”

The man nodded. Listening intently as Arthur droned on.

“I suppose, maybe I’d ask him why he kills anybody. Don’t seem like… there’s much sense in killin’ folk. For money, sure, I guess, but, my old man ain’t had no money. We wasn’t poor, but, we weren’t rich neither. This world is -- it’s full o’ chaos, and horrible people, and I just… I guess I just wonder why, if you could be any kind of man you want… why would you be a bad one? An -- uh… an evil one. Just… don’t make sense to me.”

For several moments, both fell silent. Arthur, for the fact that he figured he was too dumb to make sense to anyone else. That his hopeful ideology was lost on the man and that he could have kept his mouth shut. Peering nervously over at his companion who sat in calm reflection.

He wouldn’t say he was a bad man. Let alone, an evil man. Sure, he did bad things from time to time. Things he wasn’t proud of, but, always with reason. With purpose. Kid wasn’t wrong when he said the world was full of chaos. That’s about all he’d ever known. Though, he’d never quite thought about the things he’d done in the sense of… what happened after. It made him wonder, consider, even, how many fathers he’d killed. How many brothers or, uncles, or cousins. How many men were out searching for him. Clean hands intent on dripping in his blood. It was an interesting thought, if nothing else.

“Hmm.” He murmured. Unable to think of anything more intelligent to say. Scoffing at himself for the fact that he was a notoriously smooth talker and silver tongued conman. And with only a few short sentences, this boy… had entirely erased his vocabulary. He was glad Arthur didn’t know who he was. For if he had, the man knew he wouldn’t know what to say. Though, he’d likely start by saying he hadn’t killed his father. Not that it would do any good. He was a professional liar, and he doubted Arthur would believe him.

“Anyway, I figure if ever I meet him, I won’t have the time to say all that.” Arthur added. Squinting down the road at the blurry shapes which lined the horizon. Gradually focusing into buildings.

“You’d be surprised.” The man murmured, almost tempted to chuckle. Though, refrained, gesturing toward the town as he said, “Looks like we’re here.”

Arthur nodded, straying down a wider path which would lead them directly through the main street. Subconsciously gravitating closer to the man as the pair received a collection of menacing glowers. Nervous, though not enough to turn back, or make that fact well known. However, he didn’t have to say much, for the man to smell the strong aroma of fear which radiated from him. Something he kept in mind as they rode. There was something different about Arthur. About his scent. Usually, the scent of fear was enticing. Mouthwatering. And it tasted just as sweet, though, where Arthur was concerned, it smelled, sour. Dangerous. Heart wrenching. He’d give anything just to make it stop. To make him feel safe, or secure. Glaring at any man who dared give the pair a sideways glance. Concerned eyes tracing Arthur who was trying admirably hard not to keep his head down. To propagate toughness, or grit. And though he wasn’t very good at it, it made the man smile nonetheless. Gaze lingering on the faint perspiration pooling in the cavity of his collar bones. Eyes snapping up to meet Arthur’s when the boy glanced at him. Nervous as he dismounted by the nearest saloon. Making a quick sweep of the street before hesitantly stepping up on the porch. Glancing back every second or two, discreetly, just to make sure the man was still there. Almost jolting when he heard heavy boots stomping down behind him. Peering over his shoulder at ‘Hoagy’, who smiled down at him, almost kindly.

“I-I heard he’d got a friend. An informant, I guess. Here.” Arthur told him. Sidestepping from the man, who seemed to be standing just a bit too close. 

“That he does. Though I’m not exactly sure who.” He replied, gaze sweeping across the building’s exterior before he added, “We should split up. Divide and conquer.” Paying far too much attention to Arthur’s facial cues to miss his hesitation at that suggestion. Glancing nervously at the door. Rolling his shoulders back and biting the inside of his cheek as he attempted to seem tough. Nodding along with the man, even if he could tell the boy was skeptical and apprehensive. Though, he had to hand it to him. Kid was a good actor -- in his own way. Had it not been for the man’s keen sense of smell, and he might not have been able to tell that he was frightened at all.

He led the way, ensuring that when he stepped through the door, he waited for Arthur. Giving him a small pat on the back and brief nod, in order to communicate to everyone else in the room, that they were together. Non-verbally spelling out the consequences of messing with the kid. He searched for a moment. Eyes flicking to and fro until connecting with Javier’s. One of his men, or rather, trusted associate, as he liked to say. Winking at him and gesturing subtly to Arthur. Javier didn’t need to ask, to know what he was being told to do. ‘Hoagy’ liked that about him. He was a smooth talker, charismatic and charming. He’d keep Arthur occupied as long as the man needed, which shouldn’t have been long. 

He lingered beside the staircase. Wandering aimlessly across the floor until certain that Arthur’s attention had been turned away. Then glancing up to the second floor, where by the balcony, he saw her. Wicked blue eyes, and devilish smile, ready to greet him. Mischievous finger extending, and beckoning him closer. He took one last glance at Arthur, before trotting up the steps. Vanishing with her into a nearby room.

“I need information.” He began. Wasting no time as the woman closed the door behind them. Wandering around a satin couch, whereon she sat. Slumped against the cushions.

“Don’t you always.” She murmured, distasteful, and if he could tell, a bit bitter. He’d have asked, if he cared, but, for now he wasn’t in the mood. Nor did he have the time.

“Three men passed through town yesterday. Fentons. Tell me about them.” He demanded. Watching her as she sighed and tilted her head at him. Gaze narrowing, “Do you have any idea, how many Fentons visit the Lonesome Dove in one afternoon. You’d be crazy to think I remember them all.”

He growled lowly. Stepping across the room quickly until he was directly in front of her. 

“Except, I know that you do remember them. That’s the only goddamn good thing about your kind.”

At that, she froze. Snapping her head toward him. Rage in her eyes as she rose to her feet. Lips curling into a crimson snarl, “I don’t quite like your tone.”

He crossed his arms and shifted closer. Daring her to retaliate. To call her goons or attempt an attack on her own. But she knew better. Perhaps the other girl didn’t, but she did. 

“And I don’t like your perfume. Ain’t strong enough to cover the scent of rotting flesh.”

She scoffed and turned away. Pacing the room slowly, fists clenched and held at her sides. Glaring at the ground and muttering under her breath. She’d hate him. She’d hate him more than any other fool alive, if it weren’t for the fact that she loved him. And she’d love him. She’d love him more than any other fool alive, if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t love her. He never had, and that hadn’t been an easy high to come off of. Hence her resentment for him. But he saw through that quicker than she could snap her fingers. In fled Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly. Her top girls. The only girls, that were like her.

He smiled at them, an insincere greeting which was then followed by the dumping out of twenty nine fingers. Scattered on a silver platter in the center of the room. Their eyes glowed with wicked delight, scrambling forward, stumbling over one another as they devoured each digit. Giggling and crunching loudly on bones as he waited patiently for them to finish. 

The thing about ghouls, is that they are hideous creatures. Disgusting, and sloppy by nature. A fact which they couldn’t help, and so he did his best not to mind. To regular men, they appeared rather desirable. Like sirens, he supposed, and he often wondered what that might be like. Unable to see these monsters for what they were. Not that there was anything wrong with monsters. After all he was one himself, though nonetheless, he wondered how anyone might ever be able look at these women, and not be repulsed by their rotted flesh and pale, yellow complexion.

There were practically no perks to being, a ghoul. Save for one. And that was their memory. 

A ghoul’s senses are dull. They have poor sight, poor hearing, practically no sense of smell, and were incredibly dim witted, though conniving, however, their sense of taste, was phenomenal. Everything their tongues ever touched would be permanently cemented into their brains. It was only a matter of, who’s tongue had touched the culprits. 

“I remember these fellers. I had two of ‘em.” Karen said, licking the blood from her fingertips. Smiling in thanks to the man who nodded, waiting for the others to contribute.

“I had the other one.” Tilly told him, “All three left in quite a rush. They’d come in earlier that afternoon. Had a couple rounds. Said they’d come back later on, and they did, but, they didn’t stay for long. Out and gone with the wind only a minute later.”

“Why?”

The girl shrugged. Glancing at the others, soft snicker escaping her. They had a habit of playing. Messing around, just for the fun of it. They were young. Stupid. Susan may have known him longer than anyone alive, and she may have hated him too, but she knew better than to try his patience. She knew where the line was. They didn’t. And had he been in any other mood, he’d have likely torn them to pieces. Slashed them limb from limb until there was nothing left but scraps of flesh. 

The only other perk, to being a ghoul, was that they were nigh impossible to kill. No bullet, or gash, nor wound would incapacitate them for long. Nor would it prevent them from healing and returning to their natural state. That is unless, that bullet, or gash, or wound dealt a heavy enough blow to their brain. It was for this reason that he found himself often in the company of ghouls. Susan, to be precise, though more so in his younger years. When his temperament had been far less adapted to their current world and way of living. Entitled, and perhaps aggressive. Too, aggressive. Something he found he often regretted, and so, even if he very much could have torn them to pieces; he refrained.

“Get out.” He ordered, waving them away to Ms. Grimshaw’s surprise. Hissing at the girls to move before he changed their mind. Growling as they scurried away. Like rats. Giggling all the while. It had been a while since the two had spoken. Longer than she could remember, in honesty. Tempted into the seat across from him as he gestured for her to join him. Almost, concerned, for the fact that he rarely ever shied from violence. It wouldn’t be the first time, had he mutilated one of her girls. Or her, for that matter. Not that it was nearly as painful or degrading as it would be for a human. Ghouls didn’t have a very adept range of sensation. It was more of a mild inconvenience, if anything.

“What’s wrong?” She questioned, attempting in earnest, to hide any telling emotions. Anything which would reveal her latent sympathy for the man. Trying instead, to get under his skin. To make him angry or lose his temper, in which case, he would make very well known what was wrong with him. And they wouldn’t have to get all mushy gushy to reveal it. “It got anything to do with that boy downstairs? He’s a cute little thing ain’t he?”

She smiled evilly at him. Expecting him to be riled at her words. At the very least, offended. Mildly confused when he only stared off into the distance. Knuckles rubbing against his lips. Eyes focused on the wall adjacent to him. Acting almost as if she didn’t exist.

“Dutch?” She questioned, brow raising as he snapped instantly toward her, wagging a finger and shaking his head.

“Don’t call me that.” He said.

She cocked her head back, amused smile playing at her features, “Well, it is your name, isn’t it?” 

He sighed deeply and stood, wandering toward the window to her right. Peeking through the silk curtains, hand sliding into his pocket, “Not so long as I’m with Arthur.” he told her.

“Who’s Arthur?” She questioned.

“That, 'cute thing', as you call him, that I happen to be traveling with.”

She tilted her head. Examining him. Noting the faint air of animosity between them. The anger, and also the anguish, radiating from the man. She wanted to ask who he was. This boy. Why Dutch was bothering with him. He rarely devoted time to stragglers. Unless, of course they were special. Though, given her profession, she had a knack for identifying other, monsters. With Arthur, she didn’t detect anything. Though Dutch would be better than her, at that.

“Hosea's dead.” He said suddenly. Snapping her from her train of thought. Mouth gaping, eyes widening. Unsure at first, if she’d heard him correctly.

“What?” She murmured. Barely audible. Quiet and almost afraid that he would repeat himself.

“Hosea’s dead. He was, uh...murdered. I suppose.” He paused, glancing to her, “That boy. That -- Arthur...that’s his son.”

For some reason the room felt cold. Not cold, temperature wise, given neither really felt either hot, nor cold. No. It was cold, in the sense that it felt empty. Vacant. Lacking something. All of it, everything, had started with them. The founding fathers, so to speak. Dutch, Hosea, and Susan. They’d spent, decades hunting down every monster they could find. Uniting themselves and forming an alliance. Standing against their oppressors. The government and what futile laws it stood for. Evil men and the principals which they upheld. Monsters weren’t exactly found in abundance these days, and perhaps they never had been, but, hearing this news...this devastating fact, it broke something. In both of them. Even if the terms in which he left hadn’t exactly been...good.

“Oh… Dutch…” She whispered. Hand raising to cover her lips. Eyes gazing longingly at the ground. “What happened to us? We use to be...we use to be something. All of us. And then…”

“And then he left.” Dutch snapped. Glancing back at her almost angrily. As if she had the gaul to mention it, “Wanted to start a family. Wanted to… wanted to marry that woman. Betsie. I knew it was stupid. He was a fool. He shouldn’t have -- gone...like that. We could have protected him. We could have… we could have saved him.”

She stood. Tempted to comfort him, though knew to keep her distance. Dutch wasn’t one much for affection. Nor pity. Especially not from a ghoul. Especially not, from her.

“Who did it?” She asked softly. Chewing nervously at her nails. She’d never heard of anything that powerful. To have murdered Hosea without so much as a word to the rest of them. Though that was to say, she’d only known him in his prime. Who knows how age had affected him.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Arthur… seems to think it was me. I think -- I think he knew it was coming. Arthur said he found a cigarette case, with my initials carved into it. The one I gave him. When he left. He wanted Arthur to find me. I’m sure of it. I just… don’t know why.”

There was a long silence. One in which Ms. Grimshaw contemplated his words. Hosea had always been the brains of the operation. Certainly, it was Dutch who made the plans, and thought big, but, Hosea had always been the thinker. A fact which made it even less fathomable. His death. It didn’t make sense. How could anyone have caught him off guard? How could they have defeated him? How could they have killed him? And why? After all this time?

“What are you going to do?” She questioned.

He inhaled deeply. Glancing at her for a moment. Craving something. Wisdom. Knowledge. Information which might make his next move easy to identify. He was, most times, several steps ahead in regards to their adversaries. Adept and tactically brilliant. However, now, he stood, for seemingly the first time in his life -- uncertain.

“I don’t know.”


End file.
